The Moon Is In The Gutter
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: The moon is in the gutter, and the stars wash down the sink. I am the king of the blues. I scrape the clay off my shoes, and wade down the gutter and the moon.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Ten years after the solving of the case brought forward by Miss Olivia Flaversham..._

Basil sat deep in his favorite arm chair, surrounded by its scarlet hues on three sides and the heat of the fire on the fourth. His pipe hung limp in his lips, smoke curling lazily into the air to pester his eyes and nose. He was dimly aware of the bustle of Mrs. Judson as she moved across the living room to answer the knock that he had purposefully ignored.

"If they're looking for me, I'm not in," he groaned wearily, as he sank deeper within the worn cushions.

There was a slight sniff of disapproval, followed by the sound of the door opening. The cacophony of sound that was the rain landing upon London's cobblestone streets barged into his quiet flat, to harass his tired mind. A pout began to form on those mousy lips, and his paws migrated to his ears, to press earnestly against them.

It did no good, of course—not once, in the history of mousekind, has the pressure of fingers against ears accomplished any real goal—and soon a contrite voice slid between those pathetic barriers and tickled his eardrums.

It was a girl's voice, and she sounded upset—they always did. So many great tragedies, and all never of any real import. Not since Ratigan's demise. There had been only lost trinkets, long-lost relations, nothing invigorating, nothing to get the blood flowing. He had grown tired of their trivialities, tired of never being presented with any particularly challenging mystery.

A choked sob was emitted, before that sweet voice cried out, "Oh, Mrs. Judson!" More sobs ensued.

"There, there, child, now whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, Mrs. Judson!" she whined. "I'm so relieved! I feared perhaps you had moved, or even left London!"

The door shut, and the sound of the rain once again lowered to a dull roar, nearly indiscernible over the crackling of the fire. One paw removed the pipe from his lips, as an insufferably curious mind forced his head to turn so that those small, beady eyes could peer around the edge of his chair.

Mrs. Judson was leading the slender frame of a young mouse towards the fire, and mindlessly assuring her that they had not, in fact, moved or left London—they were still quite in residence on Baker Street. The girl was leaning heavily on the plump old woman, one paw covering her face as sobs continued to rack her frame. "Oh, Mrs. Judson—please! I must speak with Basil, immediately!"

Mrs. Judson froze, and Basil tensed. "Well, now, deary... Basil.. isn't in, at the moment, I'm afraid... He's.. gone out, with the good doctor, to, uh..."

Thankfully, the girl rescued the floundering housekeeper from her own incapability to lie. "Oh, of course. How foolish of me—they would, naturally, be busy solving _other _mice's mysteries..." Her teeth fell to gnaw upon her lower lip, as her paws clasped in front of her stomach.

There was a nervous chuckle from Mrs. Judson. "Yes, of course... Other mice's mysteries... Why don't you come in the kitchen, deary, and have some tea and crumpets."

The girl hesitated, and then the slightest of smiles brushed across her lips. "Oh, yes, that would be nice... I have so missed your crumpets, Mrs. Judson."

Basil retreated deep into his chair as they passed on their way to the kitchen, forehead knitting into a frown. The girl obviously was familiar with them, but so many young damsels in distress had passed through this flat that there was no way to tell who she could be. There was not even a way to narrow down his choices, and of course, his memory was not especially reliable...

A creaking on the stair foretold Dawson's arrival. The doctor had lost many a pound, upon signing on with Basil... and then had immediately gained them back, when Basil had begun refusing cases, and had sunk into his current misery. For every crumpet that Basil had refused, Dawson had eaten two; as a result, he was now back to his former portly glory, and glowed with all his usual jolly cheer, almost more so than he once had, as if attempting to make up for Basil's utter lack of it.

"You are officially lacking in sherry, Basil," came the oddly meek voice of the doctor. "I have drunk the last of it from the library, and cannot find a single drop of it anywhere else in the house!"

"Shshshsh!" Basil leapt out of the chair, pipe spilling to the carpet as he stumbled towards Dawson and clamped one paw over his mouth. He began to push him towards the stair urgently, shaking his head back and forth all the while. "There's a girl, in the kitchen," he mouthed. "She doesn't know we're—"

The kitchen door swung open, and both mice's heads whipped around to look at the girl, now framed in the sharp lighting of the kitchen. Her face was nearly impossible to see; the dim light of the living room resulted in a silhouette effect. "Dr. Dawson?" She hesitated. "B-Basil?"

Slowly, Basil's paw lowered from Dawson's mouth. "Er..."

A teacup fell from her fingers to crash against the floor. Somewhere in the distance, there was a muffled cry from Mrs. Judson. The girl rushed forward, arms flinging around the necks of the two mice. More sobs followed, as she pulled them into a vice-like grip. Dawson's immediate reaction was to put one thick arm around her in comfort; she leaned more into him than Basil, as Basil's reaction to her was more of a tenuous fingertip touched lightly against her shoulder.

"Oh, it's horrible!" she moaned, clinging to them both as the tears overtook her. "It's terrible! Terrible! Oh, Doctor Dawson—oh, Basil!" She continued to weep.

"There, there, child," murmured Dawson softly. "I'm sure it can't be so very bad as it seems."

She did not reply, merely cried on their shirts.

"Forgive me," Basil managed, in half-civil tones, as he pried himself free of her hold, "but are we.. acquainted?"

She drew back, rubbing at the tears with one paw. "D-don't you r-recognize me, Basil?" she asked, in trembling tones. The light hit her pale-furred face, and something struck him as vaguely familiar about the sadness in those pleading eyes.

And then, it hit them, and they both uttered their realization at the same moment.

"Olivia?" cried Dawson.

"Miss Flabberhasher?" cried Basil.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Oh, you do remember!" she cried, flinging herself upon them once again. Dawson chuckled with glee, as Basil once more stiffened beneath her hold. She had certainly grown up... His memories of the tiny child with furry ears who constantly clung to him like a flea were proving to be relatively inaccurate. She had matured into a tall, slender, almost refined-looking young mouse, as lovely as any singer at Ratigan's clubs.

"Olivia, my dear—what a lovely thing you've become!" Dawson declared.

She pulled back, one paw lingering on each mouse's arm. "I only wish we could be reunited under better circumstances," she said, voice taking on a somber note. Her eyes turned to Basil, beginning to shine in the same pathetic manner as they had when she was a child. "I'm afraid I must ask for your help again, Basil..."

He shook his head, and slid from beneath her touch. Slowly he migrated back towards the fireplace, bending to lift the pipe from the floor. With the toe of one shoe, he rubbed the ashes into the carpet; a match was drawn from his pocket, the pipe relit, and he began to puff on it quietly.

"I am afraid, Miss Flasherhab, that I am no longer accepting cases."

"Basil!" interjected Dawson, at the same moment that Olivia's eyes began to well with tears again.

"B-but Basil, you're my last hope!" She moved towards him, grabbing hold of his arm with strong paws. "Please, you... you don't understand! I... I need your help!"

He pulled his arm away from her, keeping his gaze fastened on the fire. "I am no longer accepting—"

"My father is dead!" she shouted, one paw smacking against his shoulder. "My father is dead, and you are 'no longer accepting cases'!"

Basil's eyes cut over to her, narrowing with interest. Dawson started forwards, and enfolded her in his arms, as she dissolved into tears once more. "Oh, my dear child," he murmured. "What happened?"

Her arms went around his neck. "They killed him!" she sobbed. "They murdered him!"

"Why would someone murder a toymaker?" Basil inquired quietly.

Olivia shook her head, and drew back from Dawson. She turned, again scrubbing at her eyes, and sniffing roughly. Dawson fished around for his handkerchief, and handed it to her. She politely dabbed at her tears, and returned it to him.

"Daddy wasn't a toymaker anymore," she said, addressing Basil. "After seeing what he could accomplish, the Queen asked him to work for her. Top-secret things and whatnot, I've no idea what he was working on, but he found out something he shouldn't have. There were men... They attacked us on the street! He told me to run, and the men chased me, but I was too fast for them..." Her voice cracked, and she was silent for a long moment as she composed herself. "I heard a gunshot. The men were laughing! They were laughing, Basil! They laughed as he bled to death on the streets!"

She threw herself into his arms, and, stunned, he returned the endearment. Outrage had begun to well up within him, forcing his eyes to narrow even further. His ears began to quiver, his tail to flick back and forth. They had laughed? Laughed, while murdering the rather innocent, genuinely kind Mr. ...Flabergash. Or, whatever.

"Oh, Basil, please!" Her face lifted, and she looked deeply into his eyes. "I... I think I know who did this."

He shook his head, forcing his gaze away from hers. Her eyes were far too captivating, far too good at begging him to take up her cause.

But wouldn't he? What more could he ask for, in a truly good mystery? Political intrigue—murder—betrayal—and Olivia... She had brought him his last greatest case; would it not be too far a leap to assume she would bring him yet another one?

"Now now now, what were you saying, child?" Dawson was intruding on them, and almost reluctantly, Olivia released her hold on Basil and turned to face him. "You think you know who murdered your father?"

She nodded, as she again accepted his handkerchief. "I... I heard a voice, Doctor Dawson. A... a very familiar voice." Her gaze turned to Basil again, who was already pacing back and forth.

"Impossible," he interrupted. "You were in hysterics. There was so much noise... The laughter, the gunshot—there is no way you could have heard..."

Dawson waved a hand at him in dismissal, and then used that hand to turn her face towards him again. "Who did you hear, my child?"

"W-well..." For a moment, she had difficulty refocusing on him. "I... It was before we were attacked, you see... There was no noise.. and then there was a voice, commanding.. something..." She frowned, and glanced at Basil again, who was still paying her little mind.

"I..." She bit her lip, glanced back at Dawson, and then at Basil again. "I heard Ratigan."

Basil froze mid-step, head whipping towards her. For just a moment, the old spark was ignited in his eyes, dancing with the blaze of adventure. Almost immediately, however, it was choked out, and he looked away from her with a vicious shake of the head. "No, no. Impossible. Not even a _rat _could survive that fall..."

Olivia turned away from Dawson and grabbed hold of Basil's arm again. "I could never forget that voice, Basil—I heard that voice in my nightmares for years after... after..." She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to suppress her tears. "Basil, it was Ratigan. He's.. He's... He killed my father, Basil! Please! You have to help me! I... I think they might come after me, next! They think I know his secret, Basil!"

He attempted to pat her shoulder for comfort, though he imagined he was not truly accomplishing much in the way of help. After a moment, he could no longer resist; he asked, "Well.. do you?"

There was a telltale moment of hesitation, before quickly she shook her head. "No, no—of course not! He.. would not have endangered me, by telling me such a thing."

Basil stared at her for a long moment, but she kept her gaze concentrated on purity. He sighed. "No. Of course not."

Mrs. Judson bustled in, paused for a moment when she saw Basil and Olivia caught in a half-embrace, and then flushed and gave a quiet laugh. "Who is our guest, then? Or have you still not been polite enough to ask?"

Dawson turned towards her with a little smile, and gestured towards Olivia. "May I present, Mrs. Judson, our old friend: Olivia Flaversham!"

Flaversham! That was it. Basil made a note to keep it in mind, though he almost consciously knew that note would soon flutter out the proverbial window and into oblivion.

"Olivia!" Mrs. Judson cried, rushing forward and swooping the girl into a tight squeeze. "Oh, how lovely to see you again!"

"Her father's been murdered," Basil interjected, turning to puff on his pipe—and finding, with a frown, that it had gone out. He tipped it over and knocked out its contents onto the floor.

"Oh, dear, I'm so—Mr. Basil, please!" Mrs. Judson rushed forward, producing a brush and dustpan from seemingly nowhere, and scooping up the mess.

He ignored her, continuing to pace and merely stepping over her whenever his path brought him past her. "Now. My dear."

Olivia daintily stepped around Mrs. Judson, to present herself before him.

"It is impossible that you heard Ratigan's voice."

"But—"

"Ah, ah!" He held up one paw, to beg silence. "It _is _impossible. You say you would know that voice, because you had heard it in your nightmares—this is exactly why I believe you to be mistaken."

"But—!"

"No!" That paw pressed the air, and he gave her a stern frown. "Hear me out."

Sulkily, she nodded.

"You heard that voice in your nightmares for years—you associate it with a childhood trauma—your mind would, therefore, quickly warp any voice from the dark, commanding the death of you and your father. I imagine you thought it to be Ratigan's voice _after _the incident, rather than at the moment you heard it?"

"Well, I—"

"Just as I thought." The pipe slid back between his lips, and he began to gnaw on its stem thoughtfully. After a long moment, he nodded. "Alright, my dear—I will take your case!"

The sullen mood she had taken on in response to his former words disappeared almost immediately. "Oh, Basil, thank you!" She started forwards.

Both paws now flew up, and while still gripping the pipe between his teeth, he said, "On one condition!" One paw removed the pipe. "_You_ _must stop_ _hugging_ _me_."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Not so very far away from Baker Street, a dark, caped, and otherwise malevolent-appearing form was slowly dragging its way along the sidewalk. A slight grunt accompanied each step; a great effort seemed to be necessary just to accomplish a single motion. Its breath wheezed in its throat, each lungful of air whistling disconcertingly.

It reached from beneath the cloak with a metal paw, opened its fingers, and clenched them in a fist. The motion was jerky, like that of machinery; when those claws hit the palm, there was a faint metallic clicking.

The hand thrust forth, and knocked down the street sign. "Baker St." went careening wildly across the cobblestones, before being neatly splintered beneath the mammoth wheels of a passing carriage.

A husky, but not completely unrecognizable voice growled from beneath the hood...

"_Basil..._"

* * *

Olivia sat up in her bed, breath coming in quick, short gasps. Sweat beaded upon her brow, and dripped down the back of her neck; idly, she wiped it away with one paw. Fighting back tears, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. A moment was taken to adjust her nightgown, and pull on her robe, before—silent as a mouse—she crept out of the bedroom that Basil had given her to sleep in.

Though, really, she supposed Mrs. Judson had given it to her; Basil just happened to be the owner of it. He seemed, in fact, to want to have as little to do with her as possible; he was much more content to pretend she did not exist. After supper, he had retreated from her presence without a word. He had not even wished her good night!

If not for the overwhelming kindness of Doctor Dawson and Mrs. Judson, she'd have felt extremely unwelcome.

She padded down the hallway, and paused just outside the two wooden doors, side by side. One led to Dawson's bedroom; the other, to Basil's. Dawson was like a grandfather to her, or even a second father, perhaps. He had been the one to lead her to Basil's home on Baker Street, those ten years ago; he had been the one to constantly offer her a comforting embrace.

And yet...

Basil was her knight in shining armor, she supposed—though, of course, no mouse had ever worn armor before, because they would, naturally, look quite silly in armor. Basil, especially. The thought nearly brought a giggle bubbling from her throat; she had to press a fervent paw against her lips to suppress it. He was far too slender for a suit of armor—he had almost become too thin, she thought. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes sunken within his skull and always brooding. He seemed not at all content.

But still, it was his door that begged for a knock, not Dawson's—and Olivia had always supported the giving of things to those who most needed it, and that door quite obviously needed a knock. In fact, she doubted that door had ever had a knock before! She would be granting a favor—no, giving charity! Helping the needy!

With that in mind, she raised her paw, and rapped her knuckles upon the door.

Immediately, she regretted it. She did not even know why she had come! It was just a silly nightmare. She was old enough to deal with nightmares on her own, now—she wasn't even allowed to hug Basil, after all. How could he comfort her, anyway? Although, certainly, his logic would calm her down, and if nothing else, his endless chatter about said logic would bore her into sleep...

Well, see? He had not heard her, anyway. No harm done! She turned away from his door, and began a hasty retreat to her own bedroom.

"Aren't you a little old for this game?"

Olivia froze, ears perking. Basil sounded disgusted. _Oh, I should never have bothered him!_ Slowly, she turned, and attempted a smile. "What game, sir?"

"Oh, you know—the one where you knock upon some unsuspecting gentleman's door, and then hide in the bushes?"

She stared at him blankly. Olivia had never played with other children; her father and the toyshop had been all the entertainment she had required.

"Never mind." Basil shook his head, and raised one paw to scrub at his eyelids. "Is there any particular reason you've awoken me, Miss Flasherbam?"

The instinctive wince at his usual butchering of her name was resisted; instead, she smiled. Something about his inability to get it right was almost.. endearing. "Forgive me, I just... Well, I had a nightmare, and.. and I wished for a bit of company—I did not mean to wake you. I'm terribly sorry..."

He gave a rather deep sigh, and then began to shake his head. "No, no, please—come in, come in..." He turned and began to walk down the hall a few steps, and then waved her within his study. "I hope you've no delusions about receiving any sherry, though—the doctor has drank every last drop of it."

She looked at him, startled. "N-no, sir—I.. do not drink."

One shoulder lifted beneath the worn red housecoat, and he moved to sit in an overstuffed leather chair, after lighting a single lamp.

Olivia sat down opposite him, ankles crossing, hands folding in her lap. An awkward silence followed—more awkward for Basil than for Olivia, by all appearances, for while she sat idly looking about the room, he squirmed, fidgeted, and otherwise acted like a young teenager in the presence of a love interest.

"It's a lovely room," she said, at the same moment that he asked, "What was the nightmare about?"

Both of them went silent again, politely waiting for the other to continue speaking.

"Mrs. Judson decorated," he replied, at the same moment that she said, "It was silly."

"Oh," said both of them in unison.

There was another moment of silence, before Olivia began to giggle. Basil looked almost insulted for a moment, before slowly his features melted into an amiable grin. When her laughter died down, the silence ensued; it was a much more comfortable one this time, however, and both of them relaxed their posture and began to actually appear to be enjoying themselves.

Unconsciously, Olivia began to hum, a quiet Scottish lullaby that her father had sung her, and (or so he had often claimed) her mother before him. Basil's eyelids began to droop, as his head leaned back against his chair.

"That's a lovely tune," he remarked sleepily.

A blush vividly colored her cheeks, and she let out a startled cry. "Forgive me, I did not realize..."

"No, please, don't stop..." He offered a smile. "It truly was lovely."

She blushed further, and her fingers began to fiddle with her nightgown. Feeling much too awkward to continue, she began to make a very conscious effort at silence.

"Would you like a book?" he asked suddenly. "I find reading often helps to get the mind off of things..."

A hesitant smile curled her lips upwards. "Why.. yes, thank you, I would much appreciate that."

Basil seemed pleased, at having guessed correctly at her pleasure in reading, and immediately stood to find a book. He began at one end of the bookcase, and slowly walked its entire length, head moving up and down as he read each title. Finally, nearly halfway down, he extracted one. "I think this shall do nicely," he said, as he handed it to her.

She took it, and looked down at the leather cover. It was a decades-old collection of each of the issues of _Godey's Mouse's Book_. Olivia wrinkled her nose, whiskers twitching.

He looked crestfallen. "It.. does not meet your approval?"

Her eyes raised to find his, and she offered the best of smiles that she could. "Of course it does, Basil; the dust merely made my nose itch, a bit." What was Basil doing with a book like that, anyway? Had it been Mrs. Judson's? Or.. had there been a Mrs. Basil of Baker Street, once upon a time?

The relief written so plainly across his face was heartbreaking. Basil nodded delightedly, and gestured her up off the chair. "Back to bed with you, then; you can read there, in much more comfort than you can here."

She took his offered paw lightly in hers, and stood. He escorted her to the door, opened it for her, and led her down the hallway to her own bedroom. "If you need anything else tonight, Miss Flabendish..." She stepped away, and he smiled broadly, "Mrs. Judson's room is on the first floor, off the kitchen."

Olivia laughed, and was relieved to hear his own chuckle in response. She began to close the door, but paused, and locked gazes with him. Both mice hesitated, before, both at the same time, they murmured softly:

"I've missed you."

There was a loud crash downstairs. Olivia jumped, and Basil whipped around. "What's all that fuss, Mrs. Judson?" he hollered.

"T'wasn't me, sir!" she called, voice ragged with sleep. "I just heard it myself—" Her words were cut off by a tail-curling scream.

Dawson burst out of his room, nightcap askew, fumbling with his robe. "What's going on?"

Basil was already racing down the stairs. Olivia joined with Dawson, one paw taking his own much larger one, as they followed in Basil's wake. "I don't know, Doctor—there was a crash, and then Mrs. Judson screamed, and—"

More crashes drowned out her words. Basil was yelling about something—"Years of work, down the drain! Ruined! Wasted! You _fiend_!"

"That'll be his chemistry set, then," Dawson murmured in her ear. "Now be quiet, my girl, until we know what's—"

A large shadow moved into the doorway ahead of them.

"Olivia Flaversham?"

(Somewhere in the other room, crouched amongst the ruins of his experiments, Basil made another mental note about "Flaversham".)

The voice, so terrifying and yet so familiar, made her knees go weak. She leaned heavily on Dawson, attempting to resist her body's sudden desire to swoon.

"Olivia Flaversham?" the figure repeated, one metallic arm reaching forwards out of the gloom towards her.

_Thwang!_

The figure staggered, and then fell to its knees in front of them.

_Thwang!_

It fell forwards, onto its face, to reveal Mrs. Judson standing behind it with a frying pan raised high above her head.

"I am sick and tired of my teacups getting broken!" she shouted. "I'll teach you to come burstin' through my kitchen window and breakin' all my good china!"

There was a moan from the other room. All three of them followed the sound; the proverbial pot of gold at the end of that particular rainbow was Basil, sitting on the floor amidst the wreckage left behind by the shadowy figure.

Olivia picked her way past the glass, and crouched beside him. "Basil?"

"Ruined," he moaned. "Ruined! Do you know how long it took me—"

There was an angry roar from the living room, and more crashing about. Olivia mashed a paw against her lips to keep from screaming, and backed away from the doorway.

"Looks like he's regained consciousness," remarked Mrs. Judson, fingers readjusting their grip on the frying pan.

"I propose we evacuate," Dawson said. "Immediately."

"I'm not leaving my house to that monster!"

"Mrs. Judson," Basil said wearily, as he stood, "I think perhaps the doctor has made a wise decision..."

A table came flying across the room to land against the doorway, efficiently blocking escape—through that exit, at least. The mice all ran to the window, Basil beginning to pound his fist against it.

"Step aside," growled the housekeeper. Basil had barely cleared her path, before she shattered the window with one fatal blow from the frying pan.

Basil placed one paw on each side of Olivia's waist and then, without warning, lifted her and threw her through the window. She shrieked, and landed hard on the wet cobblestones outside of 221½ Baker Street. "Basil! Dr. Dawson! Mrs.—"

The housekeeper, also shrieking, landed beside her.

Basil crawled through the window next, and managed to scramble over to where they were. "Have a nice flight, ladies?"

"Basil!"

They all turned to see Dawson, struggling to get through the window. Olivia and Basil both ran to him, each taking one plump arm and tugging with all their might. With a quiet _pop_, he slipped free of the window and out into the street.

Behind him, they could see the shadowy figure moving across the living room, silhouetted against the orange glow of a growing fire.

"My house!" cried Mrs. Judson.

Basil blinked, and looked at her. "Don't you mean, _my _house?" he asked curtly.

"I decorated it, I clean it—it's _my _'ouse," Mrs. Judson growled, hefting the frying pan threateningly—and Basil had enough sense not to argue with her.

"Now where?" Dawson asked softly.

"I used to know a nice, quiet boot right near here," Olivia said, half-jokingly.

No one laughed.

"Oh, come on, then," Mrs. Judson sighed, turning and marching off down the street. The other three mice followed after her obediently. "I've got a cousin 'round these parts, only a street or two over. He'll let us stay with him."

"You mean to say you've a cousin within less than an hour's walk, and you've still insisted on living with me?" Basil asked incredulously.

Mrs. Judson shifted the frying pan from one hand to the other. "I told you," she said stiffly, "it's _my _'ouse more 'n it's _your _'ouse."


	4. Chapter 4

_—A/N—_

_Sorry for the long delay, and the short update—work has been hectic. More, and better, stuff coming soon._

Chapter 4

"Come in, come in!" cried a plump mouse in glasses, waving in the weary party and embracing each of them as they entered. Mrs. Judson returned the hug forcefully; Dawson, timidly; Olivia, awkwardly; Basil merely stiffened, and made a show of straightening his jacket and hat once he had been released.

"Oh, my dear cousin, how've you been?"

Mrs. Judson replied with words that, had they come from Basil's mouth, would have earned him a smack upon the temple.

"That badly, ay? Horrible, horrible. To what do I owe this lovely visit?" he asked, as they were all bustled into the sitting room. "I'll make tea. You all look as if you've seen hell."

They sat there in awkward silence, wondering if he would ever sit still long enough for them to ask for rooms. Basil was perched sullenly upon one end of the couch, paws pressed between his knees, ears pulled back. Doctor Dawson had taken up the other end of the couch, legs crossed, fingers drumming anxiously upon the arm of the sofa. Olivia had positioned herself in between them, looking like a perfect mix between Basil's anxiety and Dawson's casualness.

Mrs. Judson was sitting on a nearby chair, frying pan held in her lap as if to let go would be death.

The man came bustling back into the room, laden with a tray of tea cups, crumpets, biscuits, cakes—anything and everything a tea-drinker could wish to have with their tea. The tray was thunked down upon the coffee table, and each person handed a cup and saucer. Olivia accepted hers graciously; Dawson accepted his eagerly; Mrs. Judson accepted hers politely; Basil seemed hardly to notice that there was now a tea cup in his paws.

"Strange fellow, ay?" the cousin murmured to Mrs. Judson, and Olivia was almost surprised to feel a surge of protectiveness rise up within her.

"Now, then, what's—Oh, dear, I've gone and forgot me manners!" The cousin promptly extended a paw to the trio seated upon the couch. "Marvin Judson, pleased to meet you."

"Doctor David Q. Dawson, excellent to make your acquaintance."

"Olivia Flaversham—charmed."

"Yes, yes..."

Olivia smiled softly. "And that, my good sir, is the famous Basil of Baker Street."

"Ah." Marvin turned away from them and took a seat near to Mrs. Judson. "So what has brought me this fine company, so late in the evening?"

"We're so sorry for intruding—"

A paw was held up. "Now, now, Mrs. Flaversham, it's no intrusion. I'm always up this late."

"Miss," she corrected gently.

"Hm?"

A blush bloomed on her cheeks, and she curled her paws together. "Forgive me, I just... It's _Miss _Flaversham, sir, not Mrs."

"My apologies." He turned to Mrs. Judson. "Now, _please_, cousin—tell me what's brought you here!"

"My 'ouse burned down. I knew you had such room here, Marvin; I thought it would be possible for us to stay here a few days, while we looked for another home?"

"Oh, of course! I don't mind a bit. But tell me, how'd your house come to burn down?"

Mrs. Judson had begun to reply, frying pan raising into the air as her anger swelled once more. Basil, however, suddenly leapt in. "Oh, just a silly error on my part, I'm afraid. Fell asleep smoking again—Mrs. Judson did always say it'd be the death of me!" A heartily fake laugh was attempted, as he came to his feet. "Now, then, I think we should like to get a bit of rest; hard day in the morning, after all, so if could show us to our rooms?"

Marvin sputtered, coming to his feet and nodding. "Yes, yes, of course... Alright... Right this way..." He led them up the stairs and to three rooms, side by side. "My cousin can sleep in the downstairs room... I hope these will meet your approval?"

"Yes, they're fine," Basil answered, taking the first door and vanishing within.

Olivia turned to the man with a sweet smile. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, sir. It is appreciated beyond your knowledge."

He smiled, and waved a paw. "No problem at all, dearie—you get on to bed, now..."

She nodded, and turned towards the two remaining doors. "Take the middle," Dawson said. "I prefer you being between us."

"Thank you, Doctor... For everything." Olivia smiled, and kisses his cheek, before retreating into her bedroom.

* * *

Olivia stood by with her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as Basil poked and prodded his way through the still-smoking ruins of his old flat. Dawson had been sent to search out and retrieve whatever may have remained of Basil's violin, while the detective made his rounds. Olivia had only come because she had been far too overwhelmed by Mrs. Judson's cousin to dream of remaining within his home without the company of Basil and Dawson.

"Aha!" Basil bent over, following an invisible line through the ashes and muttering to himself. Olivia had learned long ago to hold her questions until the crime scene had been evacuated, but still she found it difficult to hold her tongue when a look of such magnificent elation was spread across his face.

He looked up, and waved her over. Stunned, she obeyed, coming up to his side and looking in the direction in which he pointed. "You mentioned an arm that appeared metallic, yes?" She nodded, though he did not await affirmation before plowing onwards. "Mrs. Judson mentioned a funny way of walking, and I myself noted that our attacker appeared to have a drag to his step."

A smile was beginning to form on his lips. "Well, look here, Miss..." There was a pause, and then, with a somewhat apologetic shrug, Basil amended, "Olivia." He stepped forward, drew out his magnifying glass, and held it close to a track through the ashes. "Do you see, how there is a slight shine? There is metallic residue there—and the track itself is testament to a dragging step."

Her head turned towards him, eyes wide. "Do you mean that he was a ... metal creature?"

"No, no—but this certainly is fascinating." A test tube was drawn from his coat pocket, and a generous amount of the ash captured within. "Perhaps I should say nothing until further facts have been gathered. I'm nearly positive... but if I am wrong, I would hate to have said... But... Well, it would seem as if our fine fellow bore... perhaps, replacement limbs? And yet I did not even think a thing possible... Surely, a talented doctor..."

The muttering continued at an alarming rate, and Olivia's head soon swam with an amount of information she could never possibly hope to digest. His mind decidedly elsewhere, she drifted away, observing the smoking ruins of the household. With a wicked glee at heart, she realized that _Godey's Mouse's Book _was also lying in smoking ruins, somewhere within what had been, for a few hours, her room.

"Basil? Basil, I've found it..."

Both mice turned to see Dawson holding a nearly-untouched violin within his thick hands. Only one thing gave away the tragedy the violin had survived: a clumsily-carved word, set deep within the wood. Basil cried out, with joy at seeing his violin alive, and with dismay at seeing it so horribly scarred. He swept it into his arms like a small child, and cradled it against his chest.

"Oh, my darling!" he moaned. "What has been done to you?"

Olivia drifted towards them, attempting to peer over Basil's shoulder at the word set within the polished wood.

"I found it lying in front of the fireplace," Dawson told them. "Obviously set there after the fire had been put out..."

Basil's head raised, and a few questions were addressed towards Dawson. The doctor answered them as best he could, though it was not to Basil's satisfaction; miffed, he thrust the violin into Olivia's paws, and marched into the living room to inspect.

Olivia looked down at the violin, and gasped. In plain, block print, had been carved three letters.

An "R"...

...an "A"...

...and a "T".


End file.
